


Phantom Contribution

by SnarkySoleil



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Disassociation, Gore, Helmstroll Kink, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Limbs, Masturbation, Necrosis/Decomposition, Other, Overly Flowery Language, Tentacle Sex, Xeno, an unhealthy amount of comma splices, biowires technically, i hesitated with the relationships because it's abstract as fuck, it's all implied really, speaking of which
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26228827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkySoleil/pseuds/SnarkySoleil
Summary: Everything has to end when entering the helm, but some things never change. The Psiioniic loses his limbs and his agency, his friends and his lovers, but he cannot lose his obligation to perpetuate the trollian race.Created for Sloppy Seconds 2020
Relationships: Orphaner Dualscar/The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Condesce/The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Disciple/The Psiioniic | The Helmsman/The Signless | The Sufferer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Sloppy Seconds 2020





	Phantom Contribution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aewin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/gifts).



They took your legs first. A mixture of grief and agony, the painfully sharp scent of sweat and blood mixing with helming antiseptic, prevented you from remembering the first perigee in the helm. They didn’t really take your legs, not directly, but you do remember it didn’t take long for necrosis to set in as you hung in your helming harness, an immobile pillar sticky with fluid that ran down your face whenever She asked you to push too hard. You noticed it still in your meat suit, attached as you were to the idea of sentience and personhood, a throbbing pain that started at your ankles and crawled up your calves as the weeks shifted into perigees into sweeps. Only when your systems started pinging at you did you realize, and you sent in a maintenance request to address your blood toxicity levels. A scrawny olive came by, tapping you once on the side and ignoring your snarling as he sank a needle deep into the stringy meat of your hip. Your legs went numb, and then you never felt them again.

They’re bones now, your legs, held together by wiry sinew and the biowires prolonging your pathetic existence and binding you to the ship. Binding you to yourself, as you retract your consciousness more and more and fade into the spiraling intricacies of the ship’s systems, avoiding the concept of your trollishness as your arms follow the same path as your legs. Your arms hang on longer suspended in the air in a permanent gesture of supplication to the stars, the tissue warping and hardening rather than sloughing off in pustulent layers to be absorbed by your nest of wires like your legs. You try to save them, almost, putting in requests for antibiotics and whatever numbing agent they gave you for your legs that you know will only postpone the inevitable. Nothing. You slip and slide away with your flesh as wires begin winding through the gaps in your bones, twisting and tightening in the hollow of ulna and radius and keeping you close like a lover never could.

Only you understand you, now, for all She whispers of her devotion and Her radiance, Her desire to elevate you as Her triumph among the stars. She rages and She cries for pity in equal measure. At first you try to listen as She rants of the weight on her shoulders and bite down the temptation to complain of your own being stripped to the bone in front of Her, Her dreams of conquest and Her fury that you still will not bow to Her. You can’t, obviously, and you say as much on one of Her visits. You earn a trident to the ribs and nurse the hollows in your torso for sweeps, directing the biowires away from piercing your flesh and making their home there in an effort to keep yourself whole. You give up the next time She slices you, in the torso this time as She lowers a hand between your legs and takes you, and the biowires snake in and worm up into the tender flesh as She croons false promises. Deeper the wire goes as it brushes against your insides, deeper than the arrow that pierced the ribcage of the only source of starlight you ever dared to touch.

They buried him, you think, a final disrespect to his legacy. They would not burn his body to give honor, they would not leave out the bones to allow his flesh to sustain the planet as he deserved. They buried him, deep deep down in the dirt while you soared amongst the stars and left his memory in the dust alongside his corpse.

You reenter your meat sack once every few sweeps on a tight schedule, a schedule not even the Helmsman can escape. She joins you sometimes in fulfilling your obligation to the Mother Grub, sometimes pitch or weeping pale or a red that leaves a sour taste in your mouth beyond the usual taste of fetid saliva. All one-sided, of course. Sometimes you blink at Her to give the illusion of reciprocation, but your bulges know the motions and your nook knows when to clench without you actively present to fire the synapses. You file spreadsheets as She fucks you, idly sorting through scheduling and personnel disputes as She rants about the newest Heiress She’ll have to kill.

It’s easier, alone. You’re old now, so old, and your eyelids crack and shed layers of dust as you blink moisture back into your eyes. You received the alert yesterday and now you must do your duty, brought back into rude awareness by the automatic process you programmed a few centuries back. The program allows for the least amount of bodily awareness, with how alien wearing your own skin feels now. First the wires tighten, sending electrical impulses along what remains in your limbs. Blood returns to you, rather than the synthetic compound you much prefer to alleviate the strain on your wrecked bone marrow, your pusher pumping in a staccato beat that has you putting in another maintenance request with the helming crew. You’d rather they fix it, instead of Her. You’re not due for another rejuvenation for another three sweeps, and you’d like to keep visits to a minimum.

Finally the hardware in your pan kicks in, sinking miniscule needles into the delicate soggy mass that harbors your last vestiges of self and reminding you of what it is to be. You cough once, emaciated chest heaving as you clear your lungs of fluid. You breathe for a few minutes, or maybe hours, the motion a painful effort tinged with aching nostalgia. You push it away and tilt your head as the wires move again.

You grimace with the creaking of skin around your teeth as the biowire begins sliding up your nook. Your program kicked off your slurry production about halfway through, assuring that you’d be lubricated enough to avoid anything delicate tearing while you did this. Even after all this time your hips shift, vestigial muscle tensing to spread legs that are no longer there as the wire works. Your bulges emerge on schedule, twining against each other in the open air through a gap in your flight suit before more wires swarm to them and shove them back to plug your sheath. 

You close your eyes, eyelids fluttering as the first wire stops its steady ascent up into your nook, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back. You let out a soft breath, hips rolling as your bulges writhe in their narrow confines. You’ve learned to control the wires and harness them like so many limbs, but you’ve locked this particular process behind a programming wall. You even had a little fun with the AI, teaching it with your own movements until it could fuck you how you remembered you once enjoyed. It’s longer and cooler, more prone to stretch up towards your gene bladder, but you dream for a moment that it’s fire. Fire, and thick all the way up from the base, and prone to curling back in on itself as you whisper something lewd into the ear of your starlit beloved. You can almost hear his dearest laughing at your back, fingers and not wires tangling around your horns and running through your greasy hair.

Reality returns as more of the wire feeds into you, filling you to the point of intoxication with its unyielding length. You let out a moan that shreds your disused throat, squeezing down best you can to provide yourself more friction. Slurry leaks out from your sheath from around the wires holding your bulges in place, sliding down your inner thigh and disappearing into the tangled mass of your harness. You grit your teeth and cancel a few of your programs, and the wires fall away. 

Your bulges explode from their sheath and almost strain themselves from the force, and you let out a ragged yell that echoes around the helmsblock. The wires hover around your waist, unsure, and you direct them back to their various crevices as your bulges twine around each other. Once upon a time you could fit more in you, and boasted about it constantly to the chagrin of your companions, but you’re lucky that you don’t split in half as it is with just a biowire. Instead you direct some thicker wires downwards, curling them to form a hollow that your bulges sink into with enthusiasm. You grit your teeth, biting back a feral growl as you close your eyes and picture the sea, a violet swimming in a drunken haze as you snarl heresy into his panting mouth. Phantom fingers twitch at the edges of your consciousness, sliding down dual scars before digging into his gills as you howl in harmony with your memory.

The dream fades into aether and you bow your head, tears snaking down your face as the wire drums out any sentient thought. You lean as far forward as your harness will allow, hips jerking in an unsteady tempo as the slick sounds of the wire fucking you echoes in your ears. You didn’t know returning your hearing had made it into the protocol, but the noise drives you into a frenzy-- a self-perpetuating feedback loop of arousal as the biowire thrusts one more time before sealing itself just inside the entrance of your genebladder.

You throw your head back and keen to the stars as your bulges spasm once, and the wires flail around them in the vain effort to catch your slurry as you spill onto the damp floor of the helmsblock. It mixes in the warm water in a muddy swirl as the wire pulses inside your nook, draining you of whatever slurry you had left as you sing praises to ghosts and plead for their forgiveness.

The wire retracts, and you wince at the stretch at your entrance before it pops free and joins the indiscriminate tangle at your feet. More wires swim through the shallow water that keeps your helmsblock humid, sucking up the remnants of slurry until the only evidence is your asthmatic wheezing for breath and the sweat upon your brow. Something pings in the back of your mind, informing you that your contribution has been recorded and the slurry is currently being filtered for impurities. You’re scolded for the impurities by your systems, and you’ll no doubt get a demerit from the helming crew for making them waste time. You snort at the idea, exhaling slowly as you roll your shoulders. What more can they do to you?

Your bulges sheath themselves as you fade back away from yourself, closing down unnecessary neural pathways and blocking further physical sensations. Your nook closes down on nothing, pleading for something more to fill it, to fuck you until you can’t breathe, but your push it away. You leave your body and return to the digital space you’ve carved out for yourself, filling the crevices of the massive ship like the wires crawling up your spine. You leave yourself, and the last thing you feel is a hollow ache where your legs used to be.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lot different than my usual writing style, but I just wanted to be self indulgent and give the masses some nasty body horror in these trying times. I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
